


Absolution

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders and Hawke in the aftermath. Endgame spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> Just a repost of some more old fic.

It was over.

He was done.

_I'm done, Justice. **We're** done. I'm spent._

His heart had never felt so empty, and yet, even that emptiness brought with it an unyielding wall of guilt crumbling into place all around him, pressing down on his chest like a greedy succubus from a sick, twisted nightmare, sucking every last ounce of energy from inside him.

What little did remain had been irreparably broken, crushed underfoot like tiny glass trinkets beneath Kirkwall's unrelenting heel.

Even Justice was silent, now, either appeased or afraid--Anders could not tell which--and cowering in some dark, lonely corner of his psyche.

Hawke was there, stone-faced and silent. Perhaps reality was finally sinking in, the realization that all his protestations and warnings over the last six years had not been dramatic fits of temper or impotent, empty threats born of anger and paranoia, and that every broken promise he had foretold truly had come to pass.

When she turned his way, he averted his eyes. He could not look at her.

His fate, his _life_ was in her hands, and he swore to himself that the solace he would find by dying in her arms, dying by her hand--his heart beating its last so that he might at long last find peace at the point of her knife--would be his last selfish act on this earth. At least he would not die alone. And then she would be free to find someone else, someone who could love her the way she deserved to be loved, someone who could give her the life and family and happiness that he never could, never would, never did.

It was not until he saw the tears spilling over from her eyes and rolling down her face--a face that was suddenly only a breath away from his--that he realized he had said that last part out loud.

She kissed him with trembling lips, stained with tears and tasting of salt. Her gentle mouth was cold on his. He did not kiss her back.

He wanted to speak, but his lips were frozen, not from her kiss but from fear, and the knowledge that they were long past the time where words meant anything at all.

He lifted his gaze to hers instead, meeting her eyes as she touched him, cupping his face as though it might vanish between her fingers like sand at any moment, like the last, lingering fragments of him might blow away as dust scatters in the wind, leaving her with nothing but a bittersweet memory and her cold, salty tears.

Anders closed his eyes and waited for the knife, for the sudden, sharp bite he knew would bring him peace. 

But the cut did not come.

His eyes fluttered open to meet hers again, pleading softly without words, praying for her to please, make it quick and spare them both more pain.

But the cut still did not come.

Instead, she shook her head, answering a question he had not asked aloud.

"Weren't you the one who said, _'This is your fight too'_?" she replied, at last.

A pang of hope he knew he had no right to pierced through the fog of Anders' despair. His gaze softened, his eyes brimming to bursting with unspoken apologies, seeking forgiveness he knew, deep down, he did not deserve.

And yet, somehow, he found it. There, in the aftermath of a catastrophe he had wrought with his own two hands, at the end of a hellish road paved with bad choices and good intentions, in the softness of her touch, the sadness of her smile, and the unyielding strength of her love, was all the forgiveness he could have ever hoped to find.

Her calloused thumb scraped against the stubble on his cheek. "It **is** our fight, and **we** are going to fight it. 'We'. Not 'you'. No arguments. No excuses. No more 'protecting' me."

If he had possessed the tears with which to cry, Anders knew they would have spilled over heedlessly at that moment. But his heart was empty and his soul was as dry as his eyes, and all he could find the strength to do was nod.

"We'll fight," he said, when at last he could find his voice. "Together."

She pulled him close again for one last kiss, still gentle and tasting of tears. This time, though, her lips were warm, not cold. 

And this time, Anders kissed her back.

  



End file.
